


came from hunting

by kinpika



Series: invitis canibus venari [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate approach to the end of Here Lies the Abyss, Gen, Trevelyan questions herself and position, Warden returns to Ferelden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29557638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: Leap the gap. Pull it all back together. Green dances between her fingers, ones that are still swollen and red, skin pulsing and oozing with raw fade. Veins raised to her elbow. Such an action cost her feeling and an ally.Trevelyan knew she should own that. Accept that defeat. “I think it would be in your best interest to return to Skyhold alongside us, Commander.”Chantry's Pretender. When she was younger, she did not see herself wearing that crown. Yet the Commander appears, like all her books, reminding her of then. Now.
Series: invitis canibus venari [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152740
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

“Inquisitor… we’ve been followed.”

With some effort, Trevelyan opens her eyes. Gritty and sore, reaching for the world around her to make sure she was still here. _Here_ here, remains of the old keep. Still a smell on the horizon, and when she turns, Adamant was still burning.

“Inquisitor?”

Clearing her throat, Trevelyan looks up. Hand raised to shield herself from the sun. “How—how many?”

“Less than a dozen easy, my lady, but I, ah, think you need to come and see. They haven’t moved all night.”

She hadn’t been in the business long, of course, even as she righted shirt and buttoned gambeson once more. But if one thing were certain, had their apparent companions on the roads been Venatori, they would’ve attacked not long after Crestwood. Trevelyan would only assume she would appear the victor from that particular crossing of swords, as such assumptions hadn’t failed her yet.

Only drawn really, _really_ close. Something she didn’t consider, instead taking one deep breath to focus.

Sending magic. Formed between her fingers, swirling green as the anchor lights up. Dorian’s idea, Vivienne’s perfection. The two of them had bent necks over books for such an idea, when she had asked for assistance weeks ago. Only prior to storming Adamant had Solas provided the last puzzle piece, to contend with magic that was stuck in her skin. Trevelyan was glad, at least, that falling into the Fade proper hadn’t affected it.

The little bird, spirited and hopping from hand to hand, took flight. Green beacon in the remaining dark, heading towards the hills where the group remained. Still seated on their mounts, and at least not reacting violently as she had feared. Biting the inside of her lip, as she speaks aloud, magic finding her throat.

“I, Inquisitor Trevelyan, request a peaceful meeting. We are aware you have followed us since Crestwood, and—”

There’s a seize, forced dismissal. Has her cough, enough to have hands reach for her. _My lady, my lady_! is what she should hear, but she watches the descent. Hears it, down the sand, mounts not slowing in the sand. Too sure-footing to not have been locals, clouds forming behind them. No one had been able to draw close enough to take details, and she’s speaking again, calling through a throat that finally seems to open once more. Dracolisk, _now_! Wake Varric. And whatever Wardens still lingered!

Time was on their side, surely. Shaking off anything more than a hat pulled securely to fight the sun, staff firmly in hand, heaving herself over the saddle. Movement, and a burning sort of fear. Maybe it was just her. That she could not have called the previous night a success. Whatever had happened was a farce, the smokescreen to the real event.

Trevelyan half expected a dragon to burst from the sand, eat her whole. For Griffon Wing to sink into the sands as they push at their mounts, to try to meet these people before they were greeted by arrows. She didn’t need anymore enemies. Honestly, she could really use a friend or two right about now.

Leaning forward, she was ahead. Despite the shouts. Wind and sand whipping against her cheeks. It had been a while since she’d been like this. Trevelyan could feel the smile stretching over her lips. Inappropriate considering the circumstances, events, feelings. But by the Maker, it felt good, for once. Like everything was as it used to be, once more.

Until a hand reaches out from her right. Faster than her, pulling at the reins. “Stop, for the love of— _Stop!_ ”

In all her younger years, many a times had someone pulled at the reins for her, they had also advised against it. Never knew how things would react in time, how dangerous it was to lean across from their own horse, that there were more than a handful of scenarios that could happen. The warden, Alistair, apparently had missed out on all those talks, with such a sharp yank of the reins had her dracolisk pull back just as fiercely. Damn near threw her, and she finds herself reaching out. Trying to take the reins back.

“What the—what are you _doing_?!”

“It’s—Briseis!”

The name is familiar where it shouldn’t be. Enough to have Alistair finally let go, sliding from his saddle in one swift movement and closing the distance between himself and the newly dismounted accompaniment. Three more steps, and he sweeps who Trevelyan assumed was Briseis into a tight hug, going so far as to lift them off the ground.

Her turn to dismount. To walk over, hand raised to stop the fanfare behind her. Save for the wardens, ignoring her, swarming from all sides. Shouts, as more dracolisks spill from the hillside. Commotion that she stands in the middle of, when ‘Briseis’ steps forward, hood falling back. Imposing and proper, save for the way a jewelled earring swings. Perhaps the only suggestion of some sort of feeling, beneath the steeled expression.

“Ah, Lady Trevelyan… of course it would be you.”

“Lady… Amell?”

A mage who had lived in Highever for a time. That’s who the face was. Trevelyan could say she had only known the woman for a few days in her youth, but there was a certain impact left by the magic she had been shown. And then she had been bundled to return back to Ostwick, only to have the other shoe drop not ten minutes after landing.

“I rarely get called ‘lady’ these days,” she laughs, hand extending.

Trevelyan takes it, hand slack in the tight grip. Could hear her mother say, close your mouth! hide your shock! But the world was narrowing a little more, as another warden steps close to Amell once more, whispering in her ear.

“You’re to thank for returning Alistair to us, then?” Knuckles that rap along the front of his plate, still amused. Still thankful. _She didn’t know._

“I—well, yes, but Alistair was the one who led us out here, and—”

“We lost Hawke in the Fade.” And now she did. Face that falls in seconds, eyes widening. Good cheer and remembrance gone.

“Well… _fuck_. Carver is here.”

“Varric said that he would write a letter.”

“Too late for that.”

Eyes that search between the wardens. Trevelyan is forgotten, just as quickly as they had apparently found who they were referring to. More whispers at the ear, and Amell sharpens. Pinched lips and deep lines. Perhaps, if she had been here earlier, things might’ve been different. That thought must have haunted her, too, as Alistair moves on, rallying the wardens back into lines.

“We’ll return to the Keep. I believe we have much to discuss, Lady Inquisitor.”

No wiggle room for discussion, but Trevelyan did not want to test a disagreement here. Especially not as Amell returned to her mount, striding past with ease. In that moment, where she was nothing but an idle thought not even caught in the corner of Amell’s eye, Trevelyan understood why they had wanted this woman in the first place. Hawke was a necessary second, and Trevelyan had left her behind. She did not wish to ponder what that meant. Knocking down false gods? On her own mount, she follows closely, watchful eyes of warden and inquisition forces alike.

Over drinks in Haven and Skyhold, tales had been regaled about Warden Commander of Ferelden, Hero of the Fifth Blight. It was said Leliana had composed some herself, although Trevelyan had never caught her singing. But people claimed personal experience, a saving hand, that had personally reached for _them_. Trevelyan hadn’t believed there to be that much truth in all claims, except for how,

Awe struck the inquisition in the heart. Glittering blue and silver in the Western sun. Name and face may have been lost out to titles and meanings, but there was no denying the presence here. Nor how everyone responded.

How she faded.


	2. Chapter 2

Sun was still so high later in the day. Adamant still burning. Trevelyan pulled herself up a ladder to where Amell had been perched for near an hour. Silent in her watch. Whatever investigations she had conducted amongst the Wardens had allowed some be to be sent east. Some, not all. They had packed up and marched without much thought.

“I should have known that it was you who would wind up here.”

Always that little gift. Of knowing. When they were younger, three times she had denied seeing the future. Smile had played at the corner of her mouth, but she had denied, denied, denied. “And I should have associated an archdemon dying to a mage to _only_ be a result of you.”

Deep inhale, and Amell turns. Wide grin, different from hours before. Head that tips when Trevelyan finally stands beside her. “You came into your magic well, it seems.”

“Of _course_ you knew,” she sighs. “Didn’t say anything, however.”

Amell chuckles, nudging her in the shoulder. Like nearly two decades hadn’t past since they had last seen each other, and it was the Waking Sea before them instead. “Your eyes changed colour while you were in Highever. I wasn’t about to tell those templars hovering around me about _you_. They would’ve thrown you into a Ferelden Circle and that would’ve been the end of it.

“You were a touch older than most, too. I’ve seen what happens when teenagers are thrown in there. Never ends well.”

“You speak from experience.”

“I’ve known a fellow mage or two in my time.”

And there, the pinched look again. Rumours. Always rumours. Trevelyan had been kept moderately informed, all things considered, even long before the Inquisition had formed in Haven. Whispers in hallways of Ostwick and the White Spire had fed many a curious mage for years to come.

“Why are you here, Briseis?” Strange to wrap her lips around the name. Reminds herself she was older now, wiser. Different times called for different greetings. “Leliana specifically told me that you were unable to be reached.”

Snort, and Amell looks over then, to somewhere left. Roll of her neck, before firing back. “She was either lying, or didn’t try hard enough. I’ve been in Antiva with my husband for the better half of a year.”

“ _What_?”

Finger held up, glinting easily. “Husband. He’s here now.” Hand lowered, if only to run through hair, pull at the end of her ponytail. “On our way back from Weisshaupt, when we heard of this false calling bullshit. Can’t tell the First Warden ‘no’, but it seems I arrived too late. Story of my life for the last few fucking years.” Last part was bitter, sending a hard edge to her eyes.

Knee-jerk reaction, for Trevelyan to speak up. As the longer she stared, the more she realised something. “You swear a lot more than I remember.”

“I had to stop pretending to be some _dowdy_ noblewoman about halfway to seeing my innards out somewhere along the line.”

Trevelyan claps a hand against her shoulder. All smiles, as she remembers now. What some of those particular rumours were about. “Aren’t you technically—”

But in one fell swoop, that jovial tone she carried was cut off. Amell was harder now, more lines, more anger. She had known where Trevelyan was going before she did, shrugging off the hand. “I have no claims to the land — nor _Carver_ — and you just left the last of the ‘Amell’ line behind in the fade.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Twitch in the brow that lends for more than Amell probably realised. They weren’t the same people, after all. Lives had been led, even if Trevelyan could think of half a dozen similarities easily. The more she looked over the other mage, warden, hero, the more she stopped to realise. Acknowledge. Feel her heart break, just a little more. Once upon a time, she had imagined what it would be like, to be reunited. Now she was stuck, tearing her eyes away, watching over the horizon as wardens marched on. Putting those dreams to rest.

“Are you going to come by Skyhold?”

Elbows on the parapet now, but there’s no commitment to her words. “I have no reason to.”

Lies, Trevelyan considers. She could hear it. Poking holes through them, with a “I’m sure Leliana would like to see you, at least.” Bringing in Ferelden’s most recent hero would be paramount to victory, regardless of the way she still frowned.

Flared nostrils, and Amell turns. Third person along the battlements, still covered in material. Shadowed face, until the hood is pushed back, presenting black whorls and a single glittering earring. Equal match. “We should move on soon.”

Accented and smiling around words in a way that Trevelyan was excluded from. Enough that she had to pull her eyes away, finding an odd cloud to stare at. Only a handful of hours, and she was rendered fifteen once more, a dressing down for chipping an expensive statue, that was hidden behind draperies. Fire in her palm told her she could command just as well, if she so wanted. Surely she could.

That’s what everyone believed anyway.

Leap the gap. Pull it all back together. Green dances between her fingers, ones that are still swollen and red, skin pulsing and oozing with raw fade. Veins raised to her elbow. Such an action cost her feeling and an ally.

Trevelyan knew she should own that. Accept that defeat. “I think it would be in your best interest to return to Skyhold alongside us, Commander.”

Whatever conversation they held paused, cut through with such a sentence. Open mouthed that steadily closes, interested raise of brows now. Trevelyan flexes fingers in a motion that doesn’t go unnoticed, before clasping her hands behind her back. “I know you wish to interrogate the remaining wardens here, but our position is too open, and I do not believe there would be enough supplies for you to continue.”

Hand on hip, judged in a long look. Familiar again; a twenty-something mage accosting her teenage charges. “You’re injured.”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“I may be no expert on direct _portals_ to the fade, but I have entered it physically enough times that—give me your hand.”

She’s rough, finding out that it was past curfew and they had snuck off to the beach, cutting up her arm on the rocks. Healing it before anyone would notice. Pushing up Trevelyan’s sleeve to expose the veins. Green and overgrown, hot to the touch, wrapped around that old, silly scar. Thumb that presses in, causing Trevelyan to grunt in response. “I thought you had a mage with you who was an expert.”

“You’re well informed.”

Amell snorts. “I have spies. Everyone does these days.”

“You infiltrated _my_ inquisition?” Voice pitches as her fingers are bent. So there was some feeling still in there.

Blue glow from Amell’s hand, one that is not welcomed by the green. “I feel like you should be more concerned about the Qunari, the Crows,” a passing look back to the still present figure, quiet, but a toothy grin at that acknowledgement, “the odd bard that shows up, carta, coeterie, delegates from Orzammar, as well as those from across the Waking Sea…

“Emhyr, my dear, if you haven’t noticed the spies yet, they’ve either been removed or they’re doing a damn good job.” It’s a surge, too much too soon, that does nothing to temper the way the anchor still bled.

At least it was no longer red. That much she was aware of, as she breathes through her teeth. Fingers righted and no longer swollen, inflamed skin settled for now. Amell hadn’t let go. Touch that still remained, despite the way the anchor responded to the magic.

“Briseis—”

“We’ll be a few weeks behind you… to Skyhold. I have some things to settle before then.”

“Have I disappointed you?”

Deep sigh, Amell finally stepping back. Arms that fold across her chest, as words are weighed. “Truthfully, no. You did an impossible feat. Feelings for my cousin aside, I couldn’t imagine what must have happened there for Hawke to have stayed behind.”

And then, there was a softer pause. Quieter one. Arms tightened, as Amell breathes life into the words, “I don’t believe I have ever been disappointed in you, or could be.”

Trevelyan wasn’t quick enough to wipe the surprise from her face. Such an admission was almost unbelievable these days. Too many around her, too many people still clinging to it all. “You’re being quite gracious, considering I was expecting to die earlier in the day.”

“Don’t push your luck, Emhyr. I only put up with so much these days.”

Half-hearted, corners of mouth picking up in a kind of smile. Back and forth that Trevelyan won’t deny, confused her, scared her. Made her aware of her mortality, in how the pair descend the ladder, seeing the conversation done with. Only half a warning given, as Amell’s head appears once more.

“And tell that warden of yours, Blackwall, that I wish to speak to him, too."


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the way feeling had settled into her skin two weeks into the journey back, it wasn’t until they had settled back into Skyhold, two months after Adamant, that she felt it. Burn around her eyes, every time she so much as looked over at Varric. Apologies that wanted to pour out, that would not make up for the way he still frowned. Still wrote letters. Ink barely dried before he moved onto the next.

Only Alistair and the remaining Orlesians had ridden alongside them back to Skyhold. Amell had said she would join them later, but nails formed little half moons on the insides of Trevelyan’s arms, and they couldn’t wait any longer. Not when the dust that had settled from Halamshiral gave cause for witnessing old friends edge around each other, recently reintroduced. Long since healed over wounds, ones that she was once again sorry for picking at.

Yet there was no time for this. Splashing water over her face, pulling her hair back, she was dressed once more. Riding clothes, boots fastened and tightened. Ready to move on. List was growing, demands were made. It was her crown now, one that glittered gold under the great windows that carried Andraste’s likeness.

Irony not lost on her. No matter. One more flight of stairs, to collect herself. Be ready. To have the door thrown open, messenger wild-eyed and bright.

Trevelyan, in the mere moments before they opened their mouth, realised something. A crippling sort of feeling, of hating this being sprung on her. And she knew, of course she did, in that moment, what was the root cause. With the way the messenger lit up, just repeating the words: _she’s here! It’s the Hero of Ferelden!_ as if they were supposed to wipe away every one of Trevelyan’s worries. No, they only contributed to them further, made that self-doubt gnaw at her stomach, turning to bile and anger.

She bites too hard on the inside of her cheek, until it’s raw and bleeding. Snap of fingers, and the pain is washed away. “Let’s greet her, then.” Tone smooth and immovable, wrong. Right. Perfect for the title.

Was she not doing such a decent job? People bent knee at her presence. Apparently even Orlais considered her _enough_ to lend ear to her decision on who should lead. Getting too close to the end, and of course the great hero would sweep in, save the day. Take the rug right from out under her feet. Trevelyan does not want to leave the safety of the great fortress. With each step, she could feel herself losing it. The control. The power. The responsibility. Replaced with an inevitable fear, as she neared the bridge.

There’s a contingent of soldiers detailed in blue and silver that do not match the other wardens who had joined them. Banners carried that nominate them as Amell’s lot, East Ferelden. Earning all the awe and praise one should expect. _She_ should’ve expected this — after all, she invited them! It was her words, telling Amell, that it would be best. And Amell had bowed head, listened, arrived.

Trevelyan was always a good actor, that much she knew. Enchanters alike had waggled a finger or two in her face about such a thing when they had realised too late. But when it came to the follow up, she ran. _Coward_ , is the word her mind supplies. A word that held more weight, as she stopped just shy of leaving the fortress’s threshold.

Line of people that Trevelyan had no hope of beating, all who wanted to stare up at Amell. Whilst she had not seen the statues in Denerim, or Amaranthine, or Orzammar, or wherever else they had deigned to keep a likeness of their Hero, Trevelyan had seen one. Only in Redcliffe, one that did not quite capture her completely in stone. There was no trick to that knowledge, not twist of gratitude or appreciation. Once she had been regaled with the statue of Hawke in Kirkwall, helmed and wielding a sword, at odds with the woman who would soon spit fire. No, Trevelyan could only think of what may happen with her, in five, ten years time. They would change her image to suit.

An awful revelation, as she continued to watch. Amell stood with her helm tucked under her arm, shaking hands and smiling. Greeting. Pleasantries that any noble would fall over themselves just to receive. This was something she remembered, Amell being polite to a fault with those in Highever. Both a blessing and a curse.

She should slap herself. Wake up. Embrace being the Pretender in the Chantry’s clothes, with their praises and songs. Trevelyan’s word and existence meant that it was her, her her her. Doubly so, when she is recognised, and the great crowd parts like the seas before Ostwick. Lowered eyes and mumbled praises. It does not give comfort in the way she had expected, instead leaving her wanting — for something she did not know, and realised she never would.

Amell takes a step forward, as countless eyes are upon them. Waiting with bated breath. They should shake hands, Trevelyan thinks. Show that the Inquisition had the support of Ferelden’s Hero, Speaker for the Crown. It would mean everything, it would—

Be beaten, in moments flat. Alistair races past Trevelyan, once again. Strong hug, different landscape. She returns in kind, before he lets go. Hugs the younger man, Carver as Trevelyan recalled, where there is a different sort of embrace she was not privy too. Kind that has her look left, sky, right. Over their heads, to find Amell smiling at her.

Handshake, she tells herself. Handshake. No one but them knew of a different life, where the sand was warm and the smiles were kinder. Trevelyan had to shake it. Hand. Feeling. Find it in herself to be what she had to. What the anchor said she was (supposed to be).

There is no electricity. Trevelyan could recount stories, of what it felt to hold the hand of someone stronger. Sparks and muscle. Tensing and to feel the weight of the world there, like safety was unfolding. Nothing was to be found in this small embrace, even as Amell removed glove, skin woven with little lines of lightning. Stories were found in just the small flash, as a warm, dry palm slides into hers.

But the touch says, I missed you.

But the touch says, I’m scared.

And Amell’s eyes say, I know.

_I’m sorry._


End file.
